Shocked to learn that cars will not be allowed to run after the 17th, and all must be registered by the 20th. It’s a tough 6-kilometer walk to the Escolta for Dad.

Maurice and I drove to pick up four sacks of rice at a prearranged spot. We’d just loaded three when a passing truckload of Japanese spied the sacks and turned to investigate. By the time the ponderous vehicle was half way around, we were on our way. They made the mistake of chasing us instead of going for the source, hence missed both. Can they trace our license plates? Last year’s were so scandalously unreadable that permission was granted to repaint them. We didn’t. Can they trace our car? I doubt if they know the difference between a Mercury and a Buick. Besides, we didn’t violate any law, though some day they’ll place a limit on food stocks and take the excess.

In fact, the Japanese have been known to go into houses looking for rice. They’re also confiscating canned goods for own use; but what the looters hadn’t taken, Chinese grocery owners have stashed away to be peddled later bit by bit by street urchins. Some streets have taken on a carnival atmosphere as hordes of peddlers hawk legitimate and stolen goods with equanimity, many not even aware of the value of their wares. Everything is available: from pencils and combs to canned cocoa and vacuum-packed coffee. Manila is busy buying the little things that will come no more from foreign lands.

In the afternoon we brought more food into Santo Tomas, and found the system had been changed. Communication is now almost impossible except by the exchange of censored notes. At 1530 a crowd with hundreds of packages pressed through the man-sized opening in the gates. Maurice emerged unscathed from the melee, saying it was “worse than the 5:00 o’clock subway at Times Square.”

As to who gets the call for Santo Tomas and who doesn’t, it depends on your luck and the mood of the interviewer. Streegan’s luck was good when he showed up and said:

— “I'm here to report my Dad is American, and so am I. My mother's Spanish-Filipino.”

— “Where you born?”

— “Here, Manila.”

— “Oh, you not American, you are ‘Firipino.’”

Thus warned, the next American in line, Korea-born of missionary parents, said, “I have never been to the States and I am a permanent resident here.” He too, was let off the hook.